Pylades
by AtheneMiranda
Summary: Once upon a time two bards walked into a bar...but what has Stef been hiding all this time? Angst, violence, nastiness, crying, blood, and first-person insanity. (Updated - part three, and end of fic!)
1. Act One

**A.N.:** Alright. I surrender. This bedamned fic has pulled me through seven shades of hell, and now I'm going to make everyone else suffer it too. It's a three-shot, I've got it all written up already, and here goes Part One. Yes, I know this bit's feeble; it's just an excuse for the second shot to happen. You'll see. Clear Skies, who kindly edited it (thankyou, Skies-chan) said a couple of bits were unclear, so I'll just clarify;

A pistol-grip is a shaped sword-hilt - they look kinda like strangled tarantulas, all twisted bits of metal sticking out at odd angles. They're supposed to fit between your fingers and make it easier to grip. They come in right-handed or left-handed variants, and technically only on foils rather than (as below) on sabres, but Thene knows when to tell Real-Life where to shove it...   
The title's a joke from Les Miserables - I inserted the appropriate quotes. I've always felt sorry for Stef because, well, at least 'Lendel had his own rep, okay so it was as the Best Bad Example In History, but he was _himself_, you know? Stef was only remembered as the other half of "Vanyel And." Just like in Hugo's analogy, where he compares two of his characters, Enjolras and Grantaire, to Orestes and Pylades, because one of them could never ever be thought of independently - aaah, it's all down there, see?   
We're maybe 10-ish years after Van blew himself to bits, and it's Medren's POV - that's just random because I needed a narrator. Beware **mindless violence**, **swearing**, **judicious amounts of Elvish** (because Kerowyn said Karsite is a beautiful language, and we all know they steal anything that ain't nailed down), **shounen-ai references** (like that's going to squick you), and one **extremely feeble plot**. (I saved the angst up for later). Okay, time for the story...

. 

* * *

**PYLADES**

_"There are men who seem born to be the opposite, the reverse, the counterpoint. They are Pollux, Patroclus, Nisus, Eudamidas, Hephastion, Pechméja. They live only upon condition of leaning on another; their names are continuations, and are only written preceded by the conjunction 'and'; their existence is not their own; it is the other side of a destiny…   
We might almost say that affinities commence with the letters of the alphabet. In the series, O and P are inseparable. You can, as you choose, pronounce O and P, or Orestes and Pylades…"_   
A Group Which Almost Became Historic, Les Miserables (Victor Hugo, 1862)

  


**Act One**

  


I really don't know how he does it.

He should be unconscious by now. _I'm_ dog-tired and I swear he's been sleeping about four hours a night for over a month now. But he's still going, smiling like an angel, and somehow guiding me through the haze when I could have conceivably passed out if I'd've been alone.

He draws me to a table in the corner, a low, sturdy lump just asking to be slumped over. I oblige, and minutes pass before a hand reaches down through the darkness and shakes my shoulder. I miserably try to raise my eyelids, make slight progress on the fifth attempt, and half-focus on the little face opposite mine. "Coffee?" it enquires sympathetically.

I force myself upright - it's too strange seeing _him_ looking vertically downwards at _me_ - and nod wearily. He smiles, waves his left hand in a maddeningly dramatic sweep, and sure enough, a girl jumps to his upraised finger almost as if she'd been fixed to it by a string. Almost as if she'd been lurking around _waiting_ for him to order something. She's not bad either; blonde, I guess, it's hard to tell in this light, the right shape in the right places, not too old, but not too young either. I could do without the way she's completely ignoring my existence, though. "Sir-" I scrape my stool along the ground, noisily enough to grate on his delicate ears with any luck. "-s?" she finishes, jumping slightly. I think I see her shiver in the firelight as her gaze breaks away from his.

"Coffee." I growl, willing away my belligerence. He truly does not deserve it, and I've only just met _her_.

"That's white, no sugar," he says before I have to. "And an Evendim Cream." he adds gently. She smiles dreamily, and skips off into the crowd. Maybe, just maybe, it would actually be more bearable if he were doing it even remotely on purpose…

He leans towards me, brow creased in a faerie scowl, and says "Are you planning on cheering up any time tonight?"

A weak laugh chokes its way out of my throat. Is there anyone alive I'd rather be on the road with? He grins at me, catlike, and settles down opposite. I blink the last of the dust out of my eyes and take a look around the room.

It's as good as we could have hoped for. A bit smoky from the huge open fire, maybe, but the warmth seeping through my skin is beyond recompense. The bar-room would be pretty spacious if it wasn't also packed out; people are everywhere, laughing and talking and arguing inanely over everything there is or nothing at all, in the alcohol-soaked heat of humanity I'd forgotten I'd been missing for the past half a year. There's every sort here, men, women, sometimes together, some younger than they ought to be, some older than they'd like to be, all celebrating something, be it merely another week closer to summer. A slight preponderance of those with hard but weary muscles and the sheer appetite for drink suggests that maybe we're not the only two who are staging here while riding home from the war.

A brief scan confirms that I've been relieved of all my excess baggage, but my rapier remains, resting comfortably against my left hip, the moulded pistol-grip hilt giving me a familiar metallic tickle. The removal of the rest suggests something unlikely but very, very welcome. "You found us rooms for the night?" I glance incredulously at the throng of people.

"Of course." The infernal smile widens. Yes, of course. I suppose all pubs reserve rooms for this very eventuality, just waiting for all the beaming little kingsmen with every charm of a seraph's pet kitten who turn up at godawful marks dragging their dust-encrusted weather-beaten half-asleep comrades behind them. Of _course_. "We're up on the first floor, just right from the stairs."

He turns to the maid, who has just rematerialised at his elbow, and accepts his drink with genteel gratitude. He is seemingly oblivious to the way she brushes his arm as she leans past him to present me with my coffee. He's overgenerous with the coins, as ever; he always says he does that because he once knew what it was like to have nothing, and I can't really criticise that view. I note his order - a rich, lulling liqueur, brewed more with a northern winter in mind than a dry southern spring. More to the point, it does not to my knowledge contain a single chemical stimulant. "You're not tired?" I ask icily.

He chuckles softly. "No, just cold, mainly." I start to drink slowly, not wanting to make myself too alert this late at night. Behind me, I feel the crowd stilling as the wearier members gradually drift away, floating upstairs, slinking uptown, or falling into sleep.

"Not a bad day's journey," I mutter into the quiet pool around us, sarcasm close on blistering my lips.

He pats my right hand. "There's no need to be so gloomy. It'll get easier every day we get further north." I raise an eyebrow sceptically, and he sighs in frustration. "Yes, really. Come on. Wasn't it so much better than yesterday?"

Yesterday we weren't even off the border, still heading west to meet the northward road. Worse than the dust or the crumbly highroad was the damned stress of traversing the territory, the way every decent-sized bush could have meant a pack of bandits… "Maybe," I admit.

"No, completely cheerless, I see." I nod, and he mimes a scowl - then suddenly looks concerned. "Is that wrist still bothering you?"

"No." Now I really can't stop my voice warming to someplace this side of glacial, however much I'd like to stay cross. The sprain hasn't bothered me for days, and I'd completely forgotten about it. Seems he hadn't. He's beyond considerate at times - I honestly think he cares more about my welfare than I do.

A sudden pattering of the thin wall beside me diverts me from my encroaching good humour. "It's raining," I say accusingly, as if holding him personally responsible for the occurrence.

"It'll pass." He shrugs, and sips his drink. "Might clear the air while it's at it, too."

"Hmm. Does that mean we can stay here if it carries on like that?"

"You don't want to get home a day sooner?" Oh cut the logic, it's too long since sunset damnit… I sniff my agreement and down the last of my coffee. I wave for the girl, needing something alcoholic, but she doesn't notice. He silently offers me a little of his, and I take it gladly. It feels even warmer in here now that's inside me - if I'm not careful I could easily fall asleep where I am.

"I'm sure you'll feel happier when we're nearer to home," he muses.

"I guess. Saddle-sores seem more like progress when you don't have so far left to go."

He grins. "Cynic. But it's not just that, is it? It's less stressful being near home; everything's so familiar and welcoming. Don't you think?"

"Yes. Like - like hearing people talking with the right accent, or seeing the right trees by the wayside."

"Or knowing the smell of the breeze. That's it." We share a smile; two friends on our way back to civilisation. It's good that he can understand that feeling. He's my oldest friend, and I can't ever be sad or lonely when he's around. He has a knack for soothing away my worst moods too. I'm so glad he's here, I think I'd go mad without him.

We fall back into silence for a while.

A snatch of music reaches my ear; a voice, a soprano voice singing like a bell, soft words crooned in some rounded, flowing tongue. He cranes his neck, then gestures at the hearthplace. I look, and see a shadow standing in the flames, lithe and dark, surrounded by silent onlookers. The sound is fine and sweet - it's been too long since I last heard a child sing in innocence. But the language she sings is one I have no good memories of. It's only now that I think to ask - "Stef?"

"Yes?"

"Where the hell are we?"

"Cordor," he whispers, eyes glazing over in appreciation of the music. Ah. That explains the Karsite, then - we're still in the belt of far-south border-towns. It's one of the many things the Karsites have that they neither appreciate nor deserve; probably the most beautiful language in the world. I allow my mind the freedom of the melody, without even trying to keep control - I'm too tired to have the will and besides, I know Stef will catch me before I can break my neck. He never trips out unless he really wants to, and I think he can go further down than most can if he does - somewhere between his unusually powerful gift, his odd mind-healing ability and the psychic traces of his old bond with my uncle, his trances have become finely controlled.

My eyes flutter open, and I find him as alert as ever, green eyes scanning the fireside gathering, lips parted enough to show a tiny flash of tooth. Rationality trickles back, and I follow his gaze - the nightingale has now stepped into the light. She's very young, no more than nine or ten, large-eyed and as thin as a twig. You could have taken her for a changeling. She bows her head politely in the way of country-folk, and Stef's expression becomes almost predatory. "Gifted?" He nods curtly, as if annoyed. "You think she's headed north soon?"

"Will be if I have anything to do with it. But she's Karsite."

I look at her tanned, heart-shaped face in new understanding. I watch as she takes a glass of water handed to her, too shy even to smile at its bearer. Problems, problems, it's too late for me to even list them all without it hurting. She might not want to go, they might not want to take her, her parents won't like it, hells that hurts, I can't keep the brainwork up any longer. Maybe once the coffee's kicked in. That barmaid's fussing over her, giving her fruit - and I see her back straighten as she notices Stefen's interest. She shakes her young charge, and a rosy smile breaks on Stef's face as the child bows her head at him.

A stray memory tugs at my mind, warm but bittersweet. He turns his smile on me, and I find myself saying "Do you know what Van told me about that?"

The emerald gaze grows warm and just a little distant. He raises his glass in his left hand and murmurs "No," then drinks very deeply and slowly.

"That curtseying's fine for courtly girls, but all country girls bow, because they're more honest."

He sets the mug down and laughs, high and clear. His shoulders slip down and his whole posture seems to lighten. It's as if the sun is suddenly shining onto his face. "That's him," he says, and he folds forward, elbows spreading over the table. He rests his head in both hands and his lips twist up into an unrecognisable expression. His eyes drift shut, and when they reopen they seem to focus on something that isn't there.

It's not precisely an unusual response to that particular topic of conversation. It seems strange, but he's never avoided talking about Vanyel; I guess he likes to know that others still think of him sometimes too. "Stef?" I wave a hand in front of his eyes, and he starts, blinking rapidly in the dim light.

He grins, wide and slow, with a wicked spark of humour in his eyes. "Sorry. I was just deciding what Van would do about this," and he waves at the little gathering behind me. 

"And?" I grin back.

He twists a finger in one of those little ringlets that spiral down below his ears. "He'd kidnap her. He'd talk to her until she was convinced he was Kernos' own avatar, then lead her away on a string in full view of everyone, and they'd all bow down before him and think it was Destiny or somesuch. And if anyone at Bardic even _thought_ about her origins he'd glare them to death."

I'm laughing now. "Think _we_ could pull it off?"

"No." He smiles almost sadly. "Wouldn't be the same. We couldn't do the -" he breaks off, lost for words to describe that strange aura that made miracles turn up like bad weather everywhere his bondmate went.

Maybe I'm a little more objective than he is on certain subjects. "Complete pomposity?" That gets another laugh out of him, along with a small nod of grudging agreement. Gods, he's wonderful when I'm tired. Just eternally good-humoured and optimistic, far too strong to ever let anything really get to him. How he wound up getting bonded to his complete polar opposite is completely beyond me. Van was a doomsayer, a quibbler, a chronic worrier - that's not to say Stef isn't shrewd as hell, but he's so warm and happy and forgiving… I can't always quite believe how well he copes with everything, after all he's been through, but he does. Nothing phases him or scares him, and there isn't a scrap of spite in his soul. He's helped me through so much in the twenty years I've known him, and asked for nothing in return. He's just brilliant, really, the best friend anyone could ever have.

Reality beckons, and that grin is getting wickeder. He stands up and kicks his stool under the table. "Huh? Stef -"

He looks over his shoulder, radiating deviousness. "I can try, can't I?" He floats toward the fire, an overgrown moth, loose clothes fluttering in the draughts (everything's loose on Stef) and long hair lifting like a comet-tail. I scramble up after him, biting back a curse - I don't know what he's up to but it's likely to be completely manic.

He's talking to the barmaid - the girl? Oh gods, she's already getting the Worshipful expression, what is he trying to pull? Someone moves in front of me, I crane my neck round again - oh. Some damned fool has given him a lute; I think we're all screwed. What in hell is he up to?

I drop into the nearest seat, steeling myself for something drastic. He's good, damned good, and controlled enough to brainwash anyone he pleases once he's got hold of an instrument - even someone as usually immune to that stuff as I am. I hold my breath for the first few chords -

I exhale, somehow still in charge of my own emotions. Either the coffee's started working or he isn't even really trying; probably both, in fact. I can half-feel little ripples of power running through the crowd, and I thank all the gods that he's chosen to spare our souls the full torment tonight.

The air tingles in a familiar wave, old and friendly, though why he chose it I can't imagine. I haven't heard 'My Lady's Eyes' in many a year, and I know he abhors it for trite nonsense anyway - what's he playing at? I see him wink angelically at the little girl, flames creeping through his hair, and then he opens his mouth and lets his soul slip out -

"_Nya tari hen ná ve vilya   
I ros ar nar luin -_"

Through my complete astonishment, I hear the child gasp. I can _feel_ her heart opening up - I think he's focussing the damn song just on her. Karsite. You can't spend months on end on a war-torn border without picking up something, but _singing_ in _Karsite_? And this is brilliant; forget mind-tricks, forget the Gift, he's a truly accomplished technical performer and he's not holding any of _that_ back. He's making the cheap misshapen instrument sound like a luthier's wet dream, and every last vowel of that cursed tongue is coming out pure and perfect. _I'm_ impressed, and she looks about ready to start a _religion_.

Well, Stef, what can I say? Yes, Van would have just scared them all to death, but you're charming them instead, using your own magnetism in your own way. And they'll not forget you any more than they'd forget him; they'll still be here in a hundred years talking about the star-glowing kingsman who changed their fates with the grace of the angel -

Huh. Maybe they aren't so different, after all. Maybe…

His voice lifts off the last note, and his left hand shakes the strings, moving in a blur, then stills. A heavy silence settles over the room, stifling my exclamations and pinning me unmoveable to my seat. He stands, bows his head low, and turns to the girl, taking her dark hand in his long fingers. 

"_Tari_," he murmurs, just barely audible to me - lady, he called her lady, the trap is well and truly shut - "_nye ran ne foron, ne caras Haven_," - something about north, travelling north to a city? 

She's gazing at him with the expression I imagine a wren would give to a firebird who had just invited it to lunch. He catches her eyes and whispers "_Utuli met nye_." She nods dazedly, and I can feel the blood running over the seal. Come with me, come-with-me come-with-me, he has so caught her…

I want to cry out, to tell him he's crazy and there's no way two battered, battle-chewed singers are going to just walk off with this faerie-girl in the middle of an all-out war, but I can't do it, can't bear to spoil the beautiful snare he's crafted around us. He's too damned strong for me, too amazingly angelic - at this moment, I'd as soon have stood up to Vanyel in full flight -

Gods, Stef, you're more like him than you could ever know, sometimes.

He steps back and smiles his divine smile again, and says "Amrun omentië-lme, tari." - morning-meeting, I think, gods now I really can't stop this - "_Si, noro an lya hoth a pedo -_" 

"She has no family, kingsman."

Every head in the room whips round to face the source of the interruption. Excepting Stef, that is, who raises his gaze slowly to the back of the room, still locked in a calm of his own. She's standing by the entrance, leaning on the doorpost and glaring at Stefen with a degree of violence that is wholly disproportionate to any threat the little bard could possibly represent. Rain drips off her dark hair, reflecting the fireglow, illuminating her scar-covered face like a bloody halo. She takes a step towards him, and her leather garb creaks ominously. She stands before him, mastering him by a clear six inches, and her huge hand touches the hilt of a rapier that hangs loosely from her chain-link belt.

Her voice is harsh, her tone aggressive, her vowels skewed open and viciously Karsite. "Her _family_ was murdered when the _kingsmen_ sacked the town of Kohel. Not many of us escaped. Have you come here to finish your massacre, _kingsman_?"

He extends his hands, palm-up. "No, milady. I am offering your young friend here a future."

I know her voice. I've heard it too often before now. The vagabond, the bandit, the bitter remnant of a lost war. Valdemar had welcomed this woman, drawn her from the Sun-Priests' jaws, and received the traditional bandits' repayment. What hold does she have on this child? Friendship? The girl moves behind Stef, afraid, oppressed - I can't know what has been between them but it's clear that it's no kind of trust or companionship. What is she, your punching-bag? He's doing the right thing beyond all doubt, but this is dangerous ground he's treading on -

He turns, makes to come sit beside me. "Kingsman," she rasps. He freezes, not even looking back. "She is not going to leave Cordor." He shakes his head and stands beside me, oblivious to the notched and broken sword resting in her hand. "And neither will you!" 

She raises it and leaps forward, spitting on the ground in berserker fury. I start, try to rise, try to push him away from her charge -

- _where?_ -

A twisted, unreal instant passes - something flows _in_ and _round_ and _out_ -

I hit the floor, felled by some force I never saw coming, and I hear the cold scratch of metal near my body. Steel meets steel too close to my ears, numbing my mind for a lethal second, but I roll off into a corner somehow, feeling like a puppet-doll, my head twisting round of its own volition and fixing my vision on the silhouettes outlined in the firelight -

They're circling around each other, scanning every inch for a weak point or deficiency. Gods, she's dangerous - long-limbed and supple, far too much taller than him, and outreaching him by a frightening amount. He's faster, smaller, probably smarter…it's not enough, it can't possibly be enough… They settle to a halt, her between him and the fire, and she raises to an en garde position. Good gods this is bad, she's standing like a seasoned professional and I know he rarely touches rapier - he can't win this he's going to _die_ oh, holy Goddess…

I stop breathing when they engage - but it's just a test and he knows it. He takes her probing cut and tries to riposte it, but she catches the swing on her blade. He twists and feints for her head but she doesn't fall for it, too much to hope for, slides her blade deftly down to waist-level to parry his little follow-up. She backs away, satisfied, and changes her grip in preparation for something bigger.

He settles back on his knees, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to make any move necessary. Oh, gods. The girl is huddling in a knot of people - everyone has drawn back, most of them looking on with the ugly, speculative interest violence gets in dreary border-towns. Like vultures waiting for - _oh no_. He might live if he's fast enough. Please, be fast enough. Don't close with her, please, play defensive damn you, don't even consider a -

- full frontal assault -

_what the -?_

She crouches, trying block after block, shrieking under the rain of blows he's sending at her. He's moving so fast I can barely see it, weaving around like a rattlesnake, ducking in and out of her reach too fast for her to follow. Fire dances off his blade - _my blade_ - his hair, his clothes - Another cut that she can't parry, another swing that never lands on him. He dips low again, hacks up, spins round her, slices from the back and almost hamstrings her, gore streaming after the rapier like a dark red shadow. She screams, stumbles, flails blindly at his head, and I hear the child cry out. He jumps back, blood pouring down his face, and then springs -

- He holds back the sword, kicks at her battered legs and throws her back into the flames.

He dances back as she thrashes in the hearth, howling and rolling and burning, like a firebird in a cage. And he stands before me motionless, weapon held loosely in two fingers, watching as the life chokes out of her dark frame, still and blazing - dead, dying? _Stef -_ I'm too stunned to think, to shocked to react. _Stef, I've never seen you - I didn't think you could -_

The girl creeps forward, tears streaming down her face. "_Aran_?" she whispers, and touches his trailing left hand.

_What am I seeing?_

A mantle, glittering like starlight, seems to lift off his shoulders and vanish like smoke in the air - _this isn't real_ - He falls in on himself as if wilting, as if something is torn from him, and casts the blade to the floor like it's burning him. He pivots and I finally see his face, sheened with sweat and streaked from the right cheek with blood. His eyes meet mine, and my breath catches in my throat at the raw, crazed look in them; shock and pain and something utterly the wrong side of sanity, blazing out of those whirling green storms -

He inhales with a hiss, turns, and strides out the back of the room.

"_Stef_," I murmur, trying frantically to collect my shattered thoughts. Everyone's suddenly talking and moving, the child crying in the arms of that bedamned barmaid, two men trying to pull the banditess out of the firebox, panic and excitement, chatter and gesture, and - small mercy - none of it directed at me. I pull myself up, pick up the fallen sword, and I let my fingers run over the fine pistol-grip as I try to decide what I did and did not just see happen.

I clean the blade numbly, trying to hold on to a single scrap of reason, and I sheathe it, still toying distractedly with the twisted hilt -

_Oh good fuck -_

A woman yelps as I barge past her, forcing my way to the stairs. Good gods, Stef, what in the nine hells have you been hiding from me?

* * * * *


	2. Act Two

**A.N.:** Sorry this took so disgustingly long to get here - I'm currently subsisting in an in-and-out-of-cybercafes existence (it's like being blind) and I've been putting it off too long. So. Here goes. Contains **angst**, a little bit more **swearing**, **angst**, **shounen-ai references** of COURSE, **angst**, **some damned weird sentence structures**, and **angst**. Oh, and I **added a very small detail** to the canon, something I did entirely by accident because I always thought it _was_ like this in the canon til I checked, and it's actually never specified. Purists, shoot me, but know that I am truly sorry. (If you're particularly sharp you'll have noticed it already...ah well...) Also **evil rhythm breaks**, partly due to the fact that I figured out how to write properly partway through the first draft (way back in May...sod it all...). Oh, and **angst**. Yep.   
I threw in a second Les Mis quote too, because it always makes me think of Van - when he died it was so like this, I know it. Besides, seeing thirteen adjectives in one sentence has novelty value.

Thanks SO much for all these reviews!  I've never had so many for anything before, you've made my week!  Keruri, thanks for all the intelligent feedback, and credit goes to Victor Hugo for the analogy rather than little me.  Fantasy – please tell me, how is it OOC?  I did wonder if I was losing my handle on Stef at one point, but I'm not sure why…  And to all the other people who signed this and Des Chagrins, I love you all, and here is the Middle Bit of this here threeshot.  Thankyou again, it means a lot to me.

* * *

_"The boldness that dies well always moves men. As soon as Enjolras had folded his arms, accepting the end, the uproar of the conflict ceased in the room, and that chaos hushed into a sort of sepulchral solemnity. It seemed as if the menacing majesty of Enjolras, disarmed and motionless, weighed upon that tumult, and as if, merely by the authority of his tranquil eye, this young man, who alone had no wound, superb, bloody, fascinating, indifferent as if he were invulnerable, compelled that sinister mob to kill him respectfully. His beauty, at that moment, augmented by his dignity, was a resplendence, and, as if he could be no more fatigued than wounded, after the terrible twenty-four hours which had just elapsed, he was fresh and rosy. It was of him perhaps that the witness spoke who said afterwards before the court-martial 'There was one insurgent whom I heard called Apollo.' A National Guard who was aiming at Enjolras, dropped his weapon, saying: 'It seems to me that I am shooting a flower.'…"_   
Orestes Fasting And Pylades Drunk, Les Miserables, Victor Hugo

**Act Two**

My pulse is still racing as I yank the door open, not bothering to knock, not wanting to grant him so much as a second in which to prepare some new evasion. "_Stef_?" I growl into the ill-lit room, moonlight and candle-glow casting huge shadows on the white walls.

He's sitting on the wide windowsill with a candle burning beside him, seemingly fascinated by the twinkling of the Wain beneath the high half-moon. He turns at the sound of my voice, and I see him freeze for a second before that lying little smile settles back over a face which now shows no sign of a sword-cut. "Medren? Are you alright? You're not hurt, are you?"

"_Stef -_" I bare my teeth at him, half-mad with fury, my shadow looming over his like a hungry dragon. "_Will you stop bloody lying to me?_"

He laughs nervously. "Medren? I'm sorry, I don't understand -"

He extends his left hand and I grab it, tugging at him furiously in the flood of realisation, ten years of secrets stinging at my mind. I twist his arm around, force his palm open, and I trace the marks on the flesh with fingers that shake in barely repressed rage. Two decades' worth of calluses and scratchmarks and worn-out flesh, warm and quivering in my grip. The one damned thing he can't lie to me about. "_You're left-handed, for fuck's sake!_"

Moonlight gathers silently on his eyelashes. I snarl in bitter satisfaction. But when he muffles a sob in his hands the anger drains out of me. I fall into a chair, suddenly feeling very, very tired.

I bite my lip, almost physically feeling the dark pangs of guilt in my heart. Why hadn't I seen it? The fixed smiles, the endless assurances, the unbreachable walls of feigned optimism - when had I last known what he was really feeling? When had I last seen anything but those damned masks?

Memories sweep out from the deeper recesses of my mind. I feel my way backward through the stream -

_- weeks -_

- grief and bitterness, standing over a too-familiar corpse, angry tears dried to dust by the cruel Karsite sun. Stefen beside me, holding me, supporting me -

_- months -_

- fear and apprehension, packing my bags for a journey not everyone could come home from. Stefen smiling, helping me, calming me -

_- years -_

- pain and heartache, weeping away another broken love affair, autumn leaves crinkling underfoot. Stefen walking with me, cheering me, healing me -

Oh Stef. When was the last time anyone healed you? When was the last time you let anyone know what you needed?

- relief and confusion, staring at a smile I thought I'd never see again, Stefen running up to me, greeting me, reassuring me -

_- but before that -_

Gods. I tried, really I did. But you were shattered, ruined, so deeply trapped inside your own sorrow I thought you might never come back. I thought you were dying, ripped apart from the soul outwards, and there was nothing I could do. I thought you were dead for two months and when I saw you, so warm and alive and full of purpose -

- I was so damned happy I forgot to ask if you were really alright.

I never did, did I?

"Stef," I whisper.

He looks at me, face blotched but eyes almost dry, some shade of his usual composure seeping back. Another shutter closing on me. I get up, reach out to him before he can voice whichever brush-off he was planning, and I wrap an arm around his shoulders. He takes a shuddering breath, and relaxes into my hug.

After a while he shrugs me off and slides to the floor. He moves to an armchair by the window, and I return to my seat, facing him. He looks more incredible than ever, with the moonlight reflecting off his dishevelled hair and his green eyes glittering. Otherworldly. Ethereal. For the thousandth time I regret my uncle's untimely demise; they would have looked wonderful together, two angels with shining wings, the gold halo touching the silver one, spirit brushing spirit with the freedom and openness neither had ever shown to anyone but the other.

"Stef." He raises his head. Keeping my tone soft, I ask "What happened back there?"

He leans back in the chair, half-sighing as if unsure whether to welcome my intrusions or to resent them. When he speaks, it's in a low, clear voice, directed at the air, not meeting my eyes but not avoiding them either.

"You know why I do - all this - don't you?" He waves at the floor in a little circular movement. I'm not sure if it's meant to be rhetorical or not, so I just murmur encouragingly. His eyes shift to the window, gazing out at the distant stars. "Him."

He opens his mouth as if to go on, then he pauses in thought. I'm not at all sure where this is heading. The clamour in the downstairs room has stilled to nothing. The rain has gone, leaving the silent moon outside. It's as if there is nothing in the world but this room with its silence and darkness and heavy air.

"You'll think I'm mad -"

I sense him pull back, evasive again. "No, Stef, please - I know what I saw."

Our gazes cross for a second and he sighs. "Well, that was - him."

The candle flickers. I can feel a cold mist of clarity settling in my brain. He stares off into the sky again.

"It wasn't quite like you think it was. He - charged me with it. With doing all the things I do, protecting Valdemar from doubts and false hopes. And when it gets really bad, well…sometimes I find I get - assisted a bit."

"Stef - " I force out. The air seems so thick it's almost cloying, like too much cream in coffee. He looks at me sideways as if he's only just noticed I'm here.

A long, almost sarcastic laugh issues from his lips. "You thought he was dead, didn't you? How could he be? He's the greatest mage who ever lived, how could he be dead while I still live?" My heart almost stops, and I fight the urge to run away. It's not only the revelation, either. I've seen Stef cry and cheer, seen him in happiness, frustration, tranquillity, misery, despair - but I have never known him be so _bitter_ before, not in twenty years.

"You don't really know what I lost, do you?" It's completely chilling. I can feel myself starting to shiver. It's not just the words, or the tone, or the satanic splendour of the moonlit man with his twisted visage - He laughs humourlessly. "Ironic, isn't it? _He_ would have known. No-one else even guessed…"

Ironic; what a hideously irreverent word, that Vanyel who lost love then found it again should leave behind exactly the same wound he bore so heavily for most of his life. Of all the people in the world, why did the gods punish these two?

"It's not just - losing what you have. Damnit, if I'd've just lost everything I had that would be nothing compared to _this -_ " His left-handed sweep takes in everything, the stars, the room, the expression on his face that I could only really describe as utter disgust.

"I lost my _future_, Medren." I think he's crying again but I can't bear to look any more.

"It was everything I'd ever imagined, all - gone. I was so sure he'd always be there _- always -_ I never once dreamed of life without him." There. The rustle in his throat, stifled, shaking, hissing, he's weeping and I don't want to watch.

"You were there; you know what it was like back then, what it did to all of us. Everyone was so stressed, so tired, always on the move - there was no such thing as 'off-duty'. And he and I had it worse than anyone. Especially him. I just felt like it was, you know, just a matter of time. Just a matter of sticking it out until everything was okay again. And that idea of what it might be like someday was - well, on bad weeks, when I was seeing him for about twenty minutes a day and we were both running on nothing more than desperation and coffee grounds, then the _idea_ of him was almost as important to me as he was himself. More."

I force myself to look at him. He's sitting sideways, knees curled up almost to his chin, silver tears shining like stars on his cheeks. He makes me think of statues, or fine candlesticks, or delicate moths hovering under the moon. "I - always thought - that when it was all over, we'd settle down a bit, get to know each other better - " A broken smile flits across his face. "Find something slightly less like a broom cupboard to live in, maybe - maybe even have children…"

I cast my eyes down, feeling the cold lump in my throat dissipate, running down my nose and falling soundlessly onto the thin carpet. "You…would have been a wonderful father," I murmur. It's not enough, but it's all I can think of to say. I can't deal with this. I don't know how to do the right thing or say the right word to make it all better. You're the one who always does that, you're the one whose shoulder I cry on, who _everyone_ cries on - no-one ever comforts you, you're so strong, so giving, so easy to lean on…_gods_…

"Well." He sounds suddenly horribly detached. "That left me with nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing to look forward to, no more _dreams_. Only the horrible emptiness and all the bloody _pain_ -" He breaks off, shaking. I remember that part, only too well. All the endless mindhealing to seemingly no avail, and the times I'd find him just staring at nothing and turning that broken piece of amber over and over in his fingers - When he ceased to confide in me I thought that meant he was healing; I was probably too locked in my own grief to really notice.

"I could just about feel - _necessary_ - until Randi died. After that…everything was hurting, and it seemed I'd outlived my usefulness, so I decided it was time to - balance the equation." Some dark corner of my heart whispers _I knew it_ with sickening inevitability, like the last bolt sliding shut on a mausoleum. My eyes scrunch closed again. His homecoming erased all that despair in a moment, but I still dimly recall those weeks as being the worst I have ever had to live through, when I believed I had lost my two best friends within the space of a few months, damning myself for ever letting Stef out of my sight - and oh, afterwards when he came out with that spiel about 'taking a bit of time to be alone with my thoughts' I'd swallowed it hook, line, and sinker, so damned quick to absolve myself - 

He lets out another of those bitter half-laugh half-sighs. "It didn't quite work out like that, obviously." And another. "I sometimes wonder if it wasn't just some rather underhand trick, sending me on an endless quest for my own good - it's his style. Only I really don't think he was lying to me."

The words slowly condense into meaning. "You - you mean you - "

He raises a hand sharply. For the first time since I confronted him he sounds like his usual, competent, in-control self. "I really don't think I'm supposed to discuss that part. He - implied - that it was somewhat off the record. Suffice to say, by the time I got back to Haven I actually had some idea of what I ought to do with my life." A happy memory, sticking out like a rainbow in my mind, Breda's expression after the first time he shouted down the entire Circle, when he was only nineteen and supposedly still suicidally depressed - not something I am ever likely to forget. Mix equal parts surprise, horror and a rather maternal sort of joy -

"It wasn't for quite a long time that I realised he was helping me." The morbidity of the situation brings me back to the present, and my hands start to flex and unflex nervously. Did I imagine the upward glance he just gave to the night sky? "I wondered, sometimes. But when - I don't know -" he shrugs, "when whatever diplomatic stuff I touched just worked out perfectly however bad it looked, or when everyone in the palace caught 'flu except for me, I just used to thank some kindly god for the blessing. Until it started getting too strange."

"The - your face - " I stutter, unsettled to the core by all this.

He smiles, but only with his mouth. "It's hardly the first time. There's not a single mark on my body that wasn't there the day I met him. And I haven't exactly kept myself out of trouble, either." I'm starting to wonder, to calculate, all the tight corners we've ever been in together, the ambushes and war-zones, the storms, the plagues and the crossfire - I put a firm clamp on that line of thought before I have to scream.

He looks straight at me again, eyes full of - something I've never seen before, like he's trying to communicate some fierce, bloody feeling without using words. I drop my gaze, because there is no way I can take that - He finds his voice, unsteady, unguarded, unsettling. "I - I can't tell you what it feels like, when he does…that. It's like - like he pushes me out and takes my place, never for long, but…you can't _imagine_…" He hisses, as if having trouble breathing. "It hurts. It's not - he'd never hurt me, _never_, not even now - it's just damned heartache, but - it really _hurts_, like I'm burning…" Burning. It's all come back to - "It - it's _him_, damnit! It's too much and it's not enough - he's so bright, it - it sets my _soul_ on fire, and it's _not enough_…"

How does he catch my eye? I don't know. I never do know, _do I_? "I just want _more_. He's there, and he's _touching_ me, running all the way through me, like -" He looks away, gazes intently at gods alone know what, voice dropping to a whisper. "_- like he's taking me over…_" He trails off. Everything's drained out of me, I can't even feel uncomfortable though I know I ought to - all I can feel is unplaceable, meaningless sadness.

"It's something I can't bear to dream about. His _touch_. There's nothing, there's never been anything like it - so deep - I can still feel him touching me, days afterward, still burning, all over me -" I find myself staring at a candle-flame, hypnotised. "I feel…possessed. I feel like he's close to me again…and he _isn't_, he'll never be near me ever again…I can't take it. I can't take it…"

The light flickers in my eyes, backwards and forwards, until all I can see is afterglow. Everything's gone; my earlier contentment seems hollow, my moment of fear pointless, his stream of words…over. It's just over. No questions; I have none, and I don't believe he has answers either. I try to move, to stand, to run away and leave him alone with his sorrow, but I can't. I'm still locked in the weight of the moment, still staring into the flame. Not thinking. There's nothing to…

It wasn't me, or him, that moved first in the end - it was the breeze, curling up to flatten the little light and send shadows curling to the ceiling. It mutes, then bounces back, alive and golden, but the spell has already released me. I try to look at him, as I turn to leave him, but I can't. There's _nothing_ I can do; I'm helpless, useless to him in every way. I - I have to try something, for the sake of our friendship, for the sake of a friend I once knew - "Stef." I make myself look back, see him over the arm of his chair, see the dance of light on his downturned face, without meeting those twisted eyes. "I'm sorry." He doesn't move so much as a millimetre. "I never knew that - that you still hurt so much." Silence. "I didn't mean to get you upset -"

"That's fine." He draws back a little, until I can't make out his expression. "It's not your fault."

And that's…it. I'm locked out again. I swallow down a bitter knot in my throat, and walk towards the door.

His voice, thready, hoarse, barely audible, halts me. "I still love him. Gods help me, I still love him. I'll always love him…"

I turn again, and find him leaning forward, eyes locked around the window, fresh tears streaming down his face. I open the door slowly, spilling excess lamplight into the room, telling myself over and over that there's nothing I can possibly do.

I tread my way down the corridor, mind skimming over the available thoughts, too weak to probe any of them deeply. My own room opens in cold welcome, darker, stiller, emptier, but less cruel than the one I just left; the view from the window is the same starscape. It's not until I take a candle, numbly light it from the lamp just outside, and set it on a sideboard that it strikes me;

There was only one candle in that other room. We must have both been staring at it.

The stars outside catch my eye, and I almost expect to see one of them fall…

* * * * *


	3. Epilogue

**A.N.:** Here be the Ending, replete with **angst** - it's very short, and in first-past because it had a nice rhythm. Beware an **Elvish (again)** quote, and enjoy the in-joke; a long time ago Misty used to be a Tolkien ficcer, and she left a little metaphor lying around...oh, did you know, both Pelagir and Lake Evendim are Middle-Earth placenames? They are!   
flamebreeze, you asked - sorry if it came out all unclearish, but you CAN'T fence left-handed with a pistol-grip sword. (I still haven't a clue why I thought Stef was a leftie...I made it clear that he WAS in the first bit if you were looking, but why? Well, who else's going to represent the world population of left-handed geeks? The only other possibility is the FFVII antihero, Sephiroth...) As for the candle, I'm not entirely sure of the significance (though I have a theory, it's hard to find the words for it), but he thought it meant something so I wrote it down, okay? ^_~   Tealins; my thoughts entirely!  I think he got jilted by the author, really, she SHOULD have written his entire life story…  Then, she's still going, so maybe she will.  *prays*.  As for seeing more of my writing – I started the second bit of Des Chagrins at one point, and it may get out _eventually_, but…I feel I've said a lot of what I have to say already.  Oh, and I have a vague plan for a post-Mage Storms fic, only I can't write it because I haven't worked out if it's angst or surrealist comedy yet.  (it could only happen to me…)  
I have to thank...ah, no, I'll do that bit at the end. Hn. Fic.

* * *

"**vanwa** ['vanwa], **vany-** _adj_. lost.   
**el** [El] _root_ star."   
From the _Quenya-English Dictionary_, An Introduction To Elvish, compiled by Jim Allan

**Epilogue**

We left the next morning, not long after dawn. We weren't the only ones; there were enough war-veterans headed north to form a flea-bitten caravan. _"Safety in numbers,"_ he said, and I agreed, though we both knew it was because another day alone on the road together would have been more than we could stand. We did take the girl; after the bizarre way he'd won her, nothing else would do. She came downstairs with the maid, all wide, open eyes, alternately chattering in her native language, and falling into brief but contemplative silences. The woman was wiser, more cautious, asking our credentials warily - we expected nothing less. Enough others of our party knew of us to set her mind at rest, though it attracted all the usual, inevitable nosy attentions. All the _"Really? The Bard Stefen? The one who knew -"_, in awed voice, _"Herald Vanyel?"_ It's happened too often; he's got it rehearsed, too impatient to wait for the dreary little questions. _"Oh yes."_ It's an act. All in the lazy tone of voice. _"He swore a lot, and had a rather long nose."_ Whether it was the child's presence, the over-large gathering, or the stinging residue of whatever happened the previous night, I can't know, but he didn't add his usual follow-up, _"and he moved a lot in his sleep."_ I almost missed it. It fits the rhythm.

Come to think of it, I've never heard him use it since.

The group drifted loosely up the map, warm with camaraderie, talking and laughing, eager for their homeland. The child - Kaidah, she told us - stayed near him, trusting him to protect her. They spoke at length in jumbled tongues, she both inquisitive and shy at every new sight by the wayside, he gentle, glad to teach and to guide her, pleased to ignore my penetrating gaze. All an act; always an act. They grew together over the years - she still sings like a little bird, but now it's a refined, cultured, aristocratic bird. She walks like a princess, tall and graceful. He'll watch, listen, with as much care and patience as he did that first morning, when he told her about the trees and the butterflies - she's always been his way out of his own, torn heart.

Something changed between the two of us; nothing you could see, nothing he even acknowledged, but it's been there underneath my every word to him ever since that night; _I know_. I think he finds it reassuring, having someone close to him know the truth of what he's living through, and that makes it worthwhile however awkward it occasionally makes me feel.

But I do know, and I've seen him let up on it since, not always hiding behind himself the way he used to. He never says anything, but he lets me be able to tell if there's something wrong. I've learned not to ask; he doesn't want to be close to anyone, even to a confidant, so there's things he cannot say.

So the main change since that night has been that now, when we look at each other, my smile is as hollow as his.

~owari~

* * *

Right, then...I just HAVE to say thankyou to all the wonderful people who accidentally made this fic happen.   
There is no way I would have started this if I hadn't met magistrate - you triggered something, made me need to put the crazy idea onto paper. Thanks forever, for everything. Clear Skies for being there to throw the first bit at, and for choosing a very clever moment to run off with my ENTIRE canon, :P. Peresphone for sorting out the crinkly bit in Act Two, and for all the fencing advice I never followed. Also to the inspiring Leslie-Ann, for mailing me about my last fic and pressing all those lovely buttons I have up here - best of wishes to you. And the Muse, the little pool of pure unadulterated atmosphere that followed me around all the while, the one I couldn't write any of it without - it would have helped if you hadn't have been ENTIRELY nocturnal (barely a word of this was written during daylight hours, and most of that around dawn-time) and prone to keeping me up until seven-am, but what the hell, we made it!

To all the people who have read, and especially for those kind enough to comment, thanks eternal, zhai'helleva, and have a good summer.

_Athene Miranda_


End file.
